


One More Night

by reapertownusa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Gen, Spanking, Strapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-10
Updated: 2011-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-27 01:34:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reapertownusa/pseuds/reapertownusa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John uses Dean to make Sam understand the consequences of his actions. Dean doesn't mind - he knows who's really to blame.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One More Night

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Severe parental spanking (belt) and even more severe angst.
> 
> Author’s Note: Flagstaff AU, in which Sam is very aware of what happens to Dean when Dad comes home. Written for spn_spankings Holiday Fic Exchange. To this prompt: _Flagstaff. I'll never stop asking for variations of this prompt so someone might as well give in and write it. We'll just pretend that moment where Sam looks like he doesn't know what happened when Dad got home never happened, okay? Okay. So, John promised Dean he'd deal with him once they actually find Sam. Now that Sammy's back and safe and very much not dead, it's time to pay. Dean gets two (one/three/whatever you're comfortable with) licks for every day Sam was missing. Dean isn't exactly opposed to the idea, because hey, he did screw up and it's totally his fault he let Sammy wander off where he could have been killed, so yeah, he probably deserves whatever John decides to dole out and then some. The problem is that John has this idea about teaching Sam about consequences and responsibility, so Sam gets to count out the licks. Sammy, being his usual, teenage self, is preoccupied arguing Dean's case and the whipping just keeps on going, because if John gets in five licks in the time Sam needs to get out 'One. Dad, you totally suck, I hate you, I'm just gonna run away again. Two.' then that's just too bad._

When they’d finally found Sam, Dean had hovered somewhere between wanting to hug him and beat him to a pulp. Both sounded good, but he didn’t do either. He stood in the doorway watching Dad and Sam bitch each other out. He had half a mind to clock them both. 

Dad was just going to push Sam further away and Sam was just going to prove Dad’s point. Every yelling match ended the same, but Dean was the only one who noticed. 

Sam sounded like he was dense enough to really have no clue. When he should be pleading for his life, Sam was too busy arguing about some damned dog that he had to know they couldn’t keep. 

Where the hell would they put a dog? The car was full enough as it was and Dean had enough trouble making sure the people ate.

Dean glanced around the shitty cabin Sam had abandoned him for. It was nothing special. They’d stayed in a hundred other cabins just like it. Sam hadn’t been running away from their lifestyle. He’d just been running away from Dean. 

Turning his back on the shouting match, Dean walked back down the creaky front steps. Even standing in the driveway, he could’ve heard every word, but he’d stopped listening. He could already recite their arguments verbatim. 

As much as he wanted to get in the middle and scream for them both to shut up, it wouldn’t do any good. Sam was still small enough that Dad wouldn’t hit him aside from the blistered asses they both had coming and it wasn’t like Sam could hurt Dad even if he tried to bring it to blows. 

Dean wanted the fighting to stop, but just like it had been with Mom and Dad, the best he could do was let the argument run its course and pick up the pieces once it was over. 

He kicked at the gravel of the road, sending rocks skittering. His fists clutched hard enough that his nails bit into the palms of his hands and he threw a punch at the air. 

It wasn’t just their fighting, hell, that was the least of it. He’d been holding his breath for two weeks straight. 

After so many days of feeling sick to his stomach and knowing that Dad couldn’t stand the sight of him, it was a relief to turn around now to see Dad standing in the doorway of the cabin with the belt already folded in his hand. 

Sam was safe and Dean could finally pay up. This would finally be over. 

Dean didn’t need to be told how bad he’d fucked up. He already knew. All he’d had to do was watch Sam. His brother could just as easily be dead right now because apparently watching a fifteen-year-old was more than Dean could manage. 

It wouldn’t be possible for Dad to swing the leather as many times as Dean deserved.

His head was lowered as Dean walked back into the cabin. Sam was at the far side of the room, arms folded over his chest as he huffed like an angry bull. 

“Seriously, Dad?” Sam asked. “Why does Dean have to watch?”

“Your brother’s not here to watch,” Dad said as he rolled up the sleeves of his flannel.

Sam stood there with his mouth gaping open, staring at Dad. Dean, on the other hand, didn’t need an explanation and with Dad’s nod towards the couch, Dean unbuckled his belt. 

“Uh...Dean?” Sam’s tone had lost its fire and was heavy with uncertainty. “What’re you doing?”

Dean knew better than to answer for Dad and just focused on unzipping his pants, no longer able to look at his brother. Even though he knew he deserved every lick Dad was about to lay on him, his stomach still twisted in knots. 

It wasn’t the pain. He was used to that. It was knowing that he’d disappointed Dad beyond words, to the point that only bruising had half a chance of earning him redemption. More than anything, it was knowing that no matter how many times Dad laid the leather over his ass, it would never be enough. 

Dad would never look at him the same or understand how sorry he was. Sorry didn’t stand for shit anyway. Sorry couldn’t bring back his little brother if Dean got him killed. It couldn’t turn back time or somehow fix him so he’d accidently do something right the second time around. 

“Your choices have consequences for everyone,” Dad told Sam. “In our line of work, if we make a bad choice, people die. I had to drop a hunt to come find you. I had to let a family die because you couldn’t manage to sit in a motel room.”

Dean’s eyes squeezed closed at those words. It was bad enough to know that Sam could have died, but too much to know that people were dead because of him. 

While Dean’s shoulders slumped, Sam only held his chin higher. “In your line of work,” Sam corrected. “I’m never gonna be a hunter and you didn’t have to stop your stupid hunt. I was fine. You’re the one that needs to think about others. All you care about is the hunt. Do you even remember you have sons?”

Dean was half way to shoving down his pants when he stopped and sent a disbelieving glare towards Sam. He knew his brother wasn’t actually that callous. Sam was just pissed off and not thinking, but Dean would appreciate his brother waiting until the belt was aimed at his own ass before shooting off his mouth. 

Besides, Dad didn’t need this shit, not after what he’d been through the last couple of weeks because of Sam. Dean had to bite his tongue to keep out of it. If Dean didn’t let them get this out of their systems now, it would only boil over later.

“Everything I do is to keep you safe. If my son is missing you damn well better believe I’m dropping everything until I get him back.” Dad was trying to hide his emotions and Sam was blind enough right now not to see it, but Dean could hear it in Dad’s voice without even having to see his eyes. “Your joy ride cost lives and it could’ve cost a lot more. You’re not leaving this cabin until you understand that. Hurry it up, Dean.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dean shoved his pants down, pushing them far enough that they fell to his ankles. He knew Dad would want clear access to his thighs too. 

“What the...Dean why...” Sam stuttered before apparently putting two and two together and turning back on Dad. “Why are you whipping Dean?”

Dean gripped the arm of the couch that barely had any upholstery left covering it. The sunken cushions had to be loaded with bed bugs. They were the least of his problems. 

He was bent over, lightheaded, waiting for the worst whipping of his life. Even that dog was sitting on the other side of the room tilting its head at him, which somehow made him more self-conscious than the fact his brother was staring wide-eyed at his naked ass. 

“Dean, get up.” When Dean didn’t acknowledge him, Sam spun back towards Dad. “He’s not the one that ran away.”

“No,” Dad agreed. “But it was his responsibility to watch you and I don’t know how else to get through to you. Dean is getting two strokes for every day you couldn’t bother to pick up a phone. One for each of you. Count them out.”

“No,” Sam said, “you’re insane. I'm not a little kid. I don't need Dean to watch me and you can’t hit him for something I did.”

Dean’s entire body tensed when Dad stepped out of sight behind him. He tightened his grip on the arm of the couch and tried to relax the rigid muscles of his waiting backside. 

“Start counting.”

With those words, the belt came down to snap across Dean’s ass. He grunted at the force of the swing, the impacted stripe of skin stung like a brand. There was skittering of toenails as the loud slap sent the dog shooting for the door and flying down the steps. 

“Bones, wait!” Dean didn’t look, but heard Sam run across the room and stop halfway down the front steps. “Bones! Come back!”

Both Dean and Dad remained frozen in position while Sam yelled from the porch. It only gave more time for Dean’s ass to protest the first hit it had taken with fiery shoots of tingling nerves. 

Dad had never hit him that hard before and if he planned on putting that much strength behind every lick, there was no way Dean could make it through the twenty-seven he still had coming. It didn’t mean he didn’t deserve them. Just that he wasn’t strong enough. 

This one had been for the night Sam hadn’t come back. 

_That first night, Dean’s mind thought up a hundred and one gruesome deaths for his little brother. He literally tore apart the town and failed to find the trail._

Dean jumped when Sam stormed back into the cabin and slammed the door behind him. “I hate you! I needed some space so you’re gonna beat the crap out of my brother? You’re the worst dad ever.”

The second stroke was laid over Dean’s skin part way through Sam’s tirade. If anything, it was harder than the last. It was still okay. No matter how much it hurt, he knew he could trust Dad. He wouldn’t give Dean anything he didn’t deserve. 

“Count, Sam,” Dad ordered.

“One. You can’t do this! And you wonder why I ran away to begin with? Two.”

Four.

_For the second day, the morning Dean nearly overdosed on coffee trying to stay awake after he’d burned off the last of his adrenaline reserves. Part way through an afternoon of lying to the police, stealing a car and almost dialing Dad’s number a few dozen times, he passed out for a couple fitful hours of nightmares before starting the cycle all over._

Five by the time Sam started talking again.

“You think whipping Dean is going to stop me?” The belt whistled back down, landing just slightly below the last hit. “Three. This isn’t fair!”

Six. 

_For the third day of futile searching and the first time Dad called. Dean hadn’t been able to pick up._

“Four. You’re worse than the bullies at school!”

Eight.

_For the fourth day when Dean answered the phone only to stand there dumbly, unable to say the words that he’d lost Sammy. Dad put two and two together from the silence, demanding a report, demanding to know what Dean had let happen to his brother._

Dad hadn’t said it in those words, but Dean could read between the lines.

Dean bent further forward to bury his face into the couch cushion, bed bugs be damned. The tears were already stinging his eyes as much as the now overlapping strokes were stinging his skin. He remained silent, forcing his shoulders not to shake. 

Dad already knew how worthless Dean was. He didn’t need to know how weak he was too. 

“I’m not going to let you ruin my life,” Sam said. “I’d shoot myself before I ended up like you. Dad, stop it!”

Ten. 

_For day five, when Dad came home._

_It didn’t matter that Dad came with furious words and promises of Dean never being able to sit again. Dad was there. He’d find Sam. Dad could fix what Dean had so gloriously fucked up._

_The relief lasted long enough for Dean to collapse onto the bed, only to have Dad drag him out of it fifteen minutes later saying he had a lead. It had been the first of a million dead ends._

Dean had waited too long. He’d let the trail run cold. 

“Five, Dad, seriously. Dean didn’t know anything about this.”

Twelve. 

_For the sixth day, which had been filled with hours of driving in painful silence. Dad refused to even look at him or speak a word that wasn’t a barked order. It wasn’t like Dean had the right to expect anything more. He was lucky Dad had let him come at all._

“There’s laws against this sort of thing, you know. I’m gonna call the cops! Six. God, I hate you!”

Fourteen. 

_For the seventh night when Dad locked himself in the motel room with a bottle of whiskey and Dean spent the night curled in the back of the Impala using Sam’s hoodie for a pillow._

_His nightmares were filled with flashes of Sam. His brother lying face down in a ditch with ghouls tearing strips from his flesh. His brother’s heart torn out by a werewolf. His little brother trapped somewhere wondering why Dean wasn’t coming for him, why Dean was too incompetent to save him._

“I wish you’d been the one to die! Seven. Mom never would’ve hurt us.”

Sixteen.

_For the morning of the eighth day, when Dad woke Dean up in the car with red-rimmed eyes and scared the shit out of him by pulling him into a hug. Dean was sure Dad was about to tell him that he’d found Sam’s body._

_Dad said he was sorry._

_If he’d died in the fire then Sam would still be with them, they’d be safe. Dean held his dad and told him it was okay._

_It hadn’t been Dad’s fault. This was all on Dean._

“Dean, just get up,” Sam said. “Why are you letting him do this? It wasn’t your fault.”

Eighteen.

_For the ninth day, when Dad went back to blaming Dean like he should have all along._

_He ordered Dean to scour the obituaries and police reports for any body matching Sam’s description. Dean responded by shoving Dad hard enough that he fell back against the motel bed._

_Dean spent the rest of the day sitting on his throbbing ass reading news articles about dead kids at the local library. He hid his head in his hands so no one could see the tears in his eyes._

“Eight. This isn’t gonna change anything,” Sam said as he stomped closer. “I’m leaving again the first chance I get.”

Those words hurt far more than the quick fired whips of the belt that had moved down Dean’s thighs and back up to the center of his ass. The power behind the strikes hadn’t let up. 

Twenty. 

_For the tenth day, during which Dean’s heart stopped every time they walked into a morgue to checkout another kid’s body. By the afternoon, Dean’s throat burned raw from how many times he'd snuck into bathrooms to throw up._

“Uh...nine? Fifty? Dad, you’re gonna kill him!”

“You running off is what could have killed him,” Dad said. “If you want to help your brother now, you’ll stick to counting.”

Twenty-two.

_For the eleventh day, when Dad rightly decided that Dean wasn’t worth wasting anymore of his breath on._

_Dad called other hunters while Dean snuck enough whiskey to get drunk enough that he didn’t care when Dad found him with the empty bottle. Dad didn't care either. He couldn’t even manage to look more disappointed than he already had before he slammed the motel room door._

Sam was quiet for a moment during which he must have been estimating in his head, before he came up with a number that wasn’t too far off. 

“Twenty.”

Dad’s reply was more a growl than a word, “Sequentially.”

“Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen...” 

Sam continued to ramble off numbers even quicker than the belt was falling. Dad cracked the next one down harder, almost knocking Dean’s legs from beneath him. 

Twenty-four. 

_For the twelfth day, when Dean woke up so hung-over he almost had thirty seconds of peace before Sam’s death – disappearance – reared up through the thrumming of his migraine. The motel room was empty and the Impala gone._

_Dean didn’t blame Dad for leaving him too._

_It made so much sense he hadn’t bothered to check the kitchenette’s counter for the note Dad had apparently left about being back in an hour._

“You’re still at nine,” Dad said.

Dean wasn’t sure which of them the words were directed towards, but it rocked a barely concealed sob through him. 

The only reason he’d managed to keep quiet this long was because he was biting down on the sleeve of his flannel. His entire body jerked at each stroke over already enflamed skin.

“Fine!” Sam yelled. “Ten. How can you be such a jerk? Eleven. I’m taking Dean away with me and you’re never going to see us again. Twelve.”

Twenty-six. 

_For the thirteenth day, when Dad found him in county lockup, his split knuckles so sore he could barely flex his fingers. He was ready to confess to the murder of his little brother and didn't care about the things Big Frank had spent the night promising to do to him if they got to be bunk mates._

_After bailing him out, Dad held him so tightly Dean struggled for air._

“Thirteen. Nothing you do is ever gonna bring Mom back. It doesn’t matter how much you hate us, we’re the only ones left.”

Twenty-eight. 

_For the fourteenth day, when Dean got a call from Sam. His brother left a voice message telling Dean to pick him up at a cabin on the edge of Flagstaff. Apparently spring break was ending and Sam didn’t want to miss the start of school._

_Flagstaff. Two hours away from where it had all started._

“You think I don’t know that?” Dad asked, his tone floating somewhere between furious and on the edge of cracking. “You are all I've got left and I’m not gonna lose you. No matter-”

“How many times you have to hit Dean?”

The argument went on without Dean. It dissolved into the same fight Sam and Dad had been having while Dean had been outside. He wasn’t sure either of them even remembered he was bent over the couch getting his ass beaten. 

Dean struggled to keep position as the belt continued to fall. He could no longer feel the individual strokes. It all bleed into one mass of pain. He bit down harder on the sleeve of his shirt, squeezing his eyes tightly closed as he shoved his face further into the foul-smelling couch cushion. 

He’d stopped counting because every stroke over twenty-eight wasn’t for any particular thing he’d done. It was just for who he was.

“Damn it, Sam!” Dad shouted in response to something Sam had just screamed. 

Dean didn’t so much as hear the frustration as he felt it with an accompanying lash that seared over the tender crease where his ass met his thighs. The force of the strike brought a shock of pain that buckled Dean’s knees. 

He crumpled to the floor beside the couch with his hand held out protectively over his backside, which hurt so bad it was nearly numb. His forearm swiped over his cheeks as he clamored to his hands and knees. 

“Dean...”

He wasn’t sure which one of them had said it. Maybe they both had. It didn’t matter because the shock in their voice, like they really hadn’t remembered he was there, was too much.

“To hell with you both,” Dean muttered beneath his shaky breath.

He grabbed a hold of the couch, grunting as he used it to pull himself up. They both moved towards him and he shoved away whichever one got to him first. He couldn’t see well enough through his blurry eyes to tell if he’d just slammed his hand into Sam’s chest or Dad’s gut. Whoever it was, they both got the message and backed off. 

There were so many things he needed to say that they would never hear. 

He loved them both so much it gutted him every time they fought. They both needed to pull their heads out of their asses. They were both wrong and they were both right and it didn't matter either way because they were family. 

If they wanted to beat him, he didn’t care. He knew he deserved it, but he wasn’t going to lie around and listen to the only two people he cared about rip each other apart. 

With a sloppy jerk, he pulled up his pants, gritting his teeth at the fire of pain the rough denim ignited. He rubbed his hand over his cheeks and limped to the door. The cabin shook with the force of it slamming behind him. 

Each step towards the Impala scraped the jeans over his sensitive flesh. It gave him something to lock his focus on. He opened the driver’s side door and reached beneath the seat, fumbling in the dark until his fingers slid over cool glass. 

Dean pulled out Dad’s whiskey bottle and shut the car’s door again. He took as many steps beyond the tree line of the woods as he could manage before he unbuttoned his pants to loosen the denim’s hold. 

He leaned back against the bark of a pine tree, careful to keep the pressure only to his back. His jittery fingers unscrewed the bottle and heaved the cap so it clunked off the trunk of the tree across from him. 

The bottle set to his lips and Dean knocked back a couple swigs before letting his head fall against the tree that held him up. He blinked as he stared up into the night. He hoped Mom wasn't watching. 

A relieved sigh escaped him. The cabin was quiet. Sam and Dad had finally stopped fighting. 

Tomorrow morning, they’d pretend to get along for him. The novelty would wear off by nightfall and they’d be back at each other’s throats. This would go down as just one more night they’d pretend never happened. Just one more thing they’d never talk about.


End file.
